


give a little time to me (or burn this out)

by timelxdy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, One Shot, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 22:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18416801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxdy/pseuds/timelxdy
Summary: tw for mentions of violence / depictions of injuries





	give a little time to me (or burn this out)

**Author's Note:**

> tw for mentions of violence / depictions of injuries

She’s eternally grateful that the late nature of her shift means Yaz can smoothly and efficiently move between the shadows of her kitchen and straight to her room without a family member to pause her in her mission; to question the limp to her walk or the shade of purple spreading from the space below her brows, engulfing her right eye in an aggressive welt.

It’s not as though the ‘minor scuffs’, as she’d called them, are anything to be ashamed of, but the punch to her pride matches the initial action which caused them to come about.

Only once she’s changed into a pair of comfy, loose pyjamas does Yaz venture into the bathroom to assess the damage. It’s nothing she hadn’t expected, save for the gash of sticky crimson clinging to her cheekbone. She can’t imagine it’ll scar, flexing the muscles of her jaw to gauge its sensitivity.

Her head pounds like a growing drumbeat, so two small white capsules find themselves dropped onto the tip of her tongue, a gulp of water cementing their aid. She swallows hard, willing them to work as quickly as possible.

In her curiosity, she peels the hem of her pyjama bottoms back until she can spot the swell of another bruise on her hip in the dim light, pursing her lips and hissing when any amount of pressure is applied. The same goes for the curve of her wrist, where the swelling has died down to reveal a reddish-purple smudge, like watercolours used on thin paper.

So, when the echoing whoosh and the hum of engines announce the sudden presence of the TARDIS just outside her flat, Yaz is by no means ready to face the caring nature of her closest friend. She checks the watch around her good wrist, which reads 12:41 AM. Boy, does the Doctor choose her moments to arrive.

Slipping on her fluffy purple dressing gown to hide at least some of the marks the evening had bound to her skin, Yaz pads through to the front door curiously. She raises her hood, ready to blame it on the headache still blooming in her temple.

When she opens the door, it only opens so far due to the blue box now parked directly outside. She reaches out for the door handle, the cold metal a grateful sensation in comparison to the burning feeling which has spread over her skin like lead paint. She nudges the door open and steps inside, exuding a falsely chipper voice, though it’s laced with sleep.

“Doctor? It’s a bit early, don’t you think?” Yaz chides playfully, finding the blonde crouched under the console attempting to fix… is that the custard cream dispenser? Of course it is.

“Yaz!”

She darts up at the sound of the familiar voice, jumping to her feet before she skips over for her usual hug. They’ve been doing that a lot, recently, finding any excuse to be in each other's proximity. Only this time, it’s a curse.

The second Yaz seizes up with a hiss when the Doctor squeezes just a little too hard, her facade dissipates and the blonde pulls back, holding her at arm's length. Yaz looks down, features shielded from sight by her hood.

“I was parking up to wait until morning. Got some repairs to -... Yaz? Everything alright? Sorry, got a bit over excited there.” The concern to her voice leaves Yaz suddenly fighting the urge to cry. She hadn’t yet succumbed to the reality of the situation, adrenaline and shock still pumping through her veins, but now it’s waning, leaving her lost for words when green eyes attempt to find hers in the shadow of her dressing gown.

“What’s with the hood? Hoods are deceiving. You could be sleepwalking, for all I know,” the Time Lord teases in jest, but there’s something worrying about the tremble in the tips of Yaz’s fingers and the way her pulse begins to race in the Doctor’s ears. There’s definitely something wrong.  “You know, I once sleepwalked a marathon. Came thirteenth, too.”

If the Doctor wasn’t already the most quietly caring person Yaz had ever met, she is now.

“May I?” The Doctor motions towards the fluffy material keeping her features from sight, fingertips finding the hem and peeling back when she’s received consent. There’s a tremble to Yaz’s bottom lip when her bruised face is revealed, the Doctor’s gasp bouncing against the engineered metal winding around the room.

“Oh, Yaz. What’s happened?” The soft edge to her voice leaves Yaz’s emotions to run wild, tears springing to bloodshot eyes. She ducks her head, refusing to allow the Doctor to see her anything less than composed and strong. In this case, her pride is more important.

There’s something about the Doctor which makes every moment an opportunity to make her proud; she tries so hard to match up to the Doctor’s bold, fearless attitude, to impress her, to earn her approval. So, the tears making trails from chocolate irises are unstoppable but frustrating for the young woman.

Yaz heaves a shaky sigh, curling her arms around herself until the Doctor gently pries them apart to replace with her own. She has the patience of a god, leaving Yaz to bury flushed, dampened cheeks against the soft material of her coat, quiet sobs rocking her body. She doesn’t know why she’s crying, exactly - perhaps it’s a mix of the Doctor’s worried nature mixed with the fact the adrenaline has finally washed away with the tide.

“Work. Something happened at work.” Yaz finally manages, settled on the steps of the TARDIS sometime later, still wrapped up and safe in the Doctor’s arms. She can feel a nod of understanding against the top of her head, weathered fingers beginning a tentative glide through her dark tresses. It’s an unconscious movement, one which the Doctor pauses until Yaz gives a soft hum of approval, leaning into her touch.

There’s a flutter in her old hearts, synapses singing the song of years ago and reminding her she’s not going to be able to hold herself back this time - she’s head over heels for Yasmin Khan, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“There was a drunken fight, which, I mean - I’ve dealt with tons in the past, so that was fine. It was sorted, we had them arrested and put in a cell for the night, but _apparently,_ one of them was released early, and -“ She takes a steadying breath, hiccuping quietly. By now she’s peeled herself away from the Doctor’s chest, though she’s still close, glancing around as though the shadowed figure could still be watching her.

The Doctor tilts her head up slightly, giving her one of those looks which just _radiates_ warmth and safety. She’s not pushing her, though, which Yaz is grateful for. She gives her the quiet she needs to keep going, reaching for her hand only to tap out a soothing rhythm into her palm. Once she’s matched her breathing to it, Yaz continues.

“- he followed me home, I guess. I was exhausted and I just wanted to get into bed, so I wasn’t really concentrating. I’m so stupid. I should never have walked home- it was twelve at night, why did I think it was a good idea not to take the car to work?” She scolds herself, giving a frustrated sigh which pulls at the gash on her cheek. The Doctor notices, reaching out to dab at the trickle of blood which follows.

“You had no idea, Yaz. This isn’t your fault. If it wasn’t for people like _them_ , you wouldn’t have to limit walking at night to certain hours. Honestly, the world is mad sometimes,” the Doctor reassures her, though the way her fingers intertwine with Yaz to offer a comforting squeeze is shy and unsure. That is until Yaz gives a gentle squeeze back, securely locking their fingers together. She wishes to be even closer, but she pins it down to the fright she’s had.

“I was mugged. I think he came straight up in front of me and hit me with something, maybe a baseball bat? I can’t really remember the rest, but I managed to get home, and then… I heard the TARDIS. Now here I am.” There’s an edge to her voice which is simply _not Yaz._ It’s quiet, somewhat unsure, and less confident than ever before.

Hold tightening around Yaz’s hand, the Doctor has to hold back a flood of anger and resentment towards the man who’d hurt her Yaz. _Her_ closest friend. Her… something more. She’s glad she doesn’t know the bloke’s whereabouts because she would not be held responsible for her actions if so. Oh, how she’d love to inflict the same amount of pain, if not more, on him, but she has to keep those dangerous thoughts at bay for now. Yaz is her main priority right now, and she’ll do her utmost to regain her confidence back, bit by bit until she’s back to her usual self - someone the Doctor had come to admire ever since their first meeting.

Wiping her cheeks with her free hand, Yaz inspects the bruises scattering her skin with frustration. She’s a _police officer, for goodness’ sake._ Then she thinks of her mum and her sister, and she’s grateful it was her, not them. She dreads telling her mum once she’s back home, mostly because of the embarrassment it would induce. She can imagine the conversation clearly.

_Mum, I’ve been mugged. I was attacked on the way home last night._

_“What? Seriously? Don’t you have training for this? You could’ve just arrested him, couldn’t you? Oh, Yaz. You silly thing.”_

“Hey, hey. Yaz.” She’s brought back to the present by cool palms on her cheeks, light but enough to catch her attention. The Doctor makes sure not to brush the wound on her cheekbone, thumb resting just below as she implores her to see sense. “Stop. I know what you’re thinking, so _stop._ None of this was your fault. You’re a victim, yes, but you’re by no means weak. You’re one of the strongest and bravest people I know, Yaz. Stop torturing yourself.”

Tears tumble down the slope of her nose, falling to rest at the barrier that is the Doctor’s palms, still gentle but ever-present against her skin. She understands, now, that it isn’t _entirely_ her fault, even if the niggling voice at the back of her mind chants the opposite. She can’t seem to pull her gaze away from the Doctor’s despite the fog which clouds her vision when she can’t seem to stop the flow of tears.

“Thank you,” Yaz murmurs, just above a whisper, damp lashes fluttering. She shifts, sitting up a little straighter, coming off a little stronger, more confident. She no longer wants to curl up and dwell in tonight’s misfortune, even if it’s resulted in such a kick to her courage.

“Shall we get you cleaned up? Only if you want to, of course. It’s probably pretty painful,” the Doctor starts, hands falling to her knees in readiness to pull herself up. “I have some medicine and gel and all sorts which could help wounds like these if you’ll let me help?”

Yaz is grateful for her patience, her wariness, her _kindness,_ accepting the hand she offers once she’s on her feet. There’s a wince as stiff limbs regain their full feeling and remind her of the injuries the Doctor hasn’t seen yet. She pushes it to the back of her mind, though, surging forward as the blonde leads the way to the med bay.

Halfway there, the Doctor curls an arm around her waist to support her weight when an awkward twinge in her hip leaves her doubled over. She doesn’t hesitate to help, not once.

The bed is warm and welcoming when they arrive, and her muscles relax and burn pleasantly with their gratitude. She lies back, quietly observing the way the Doctor ambles about to fetch this and that from selective drawers like a jeweller picking a variety of gems from their collection. She’s well-equipped, that’s for sure.

Once it seems as though she has all she needs, the Doctor heads back over to her side. The warm smile on her lips is enough to reduce the chill of the wipes now being dabbed around the wound embracing her cheekbone. “Tell me if it hurts, alright?"

“Of course.” Yaz hums, eyes falling shut when a cold gel is applied to the surface of the gash. Surprisingly enough, the minute the substance touches her skin, the harsh sting eases into nothingness.

“Guessing this isn’t found anywhere on Earth, huh?” She quips, lashes fluttering when it’s lathered gently over her black eye, coating her skin in a soluble painkiller.

“Not for another millennium, no. Good job, really. This stuff is powerful - in your time, it could start wars. In fact, I think it did, once,” She pauses, scrunching her nose in thought. It’s lucky, really, that Yaz chooses that exact moment to open her eyes, revelling in the adorable nature of her best friend-turned… something she can’t quite put a name on. “Not that I was there, of course, and _definitely not_ because I’d caused it.”

For some reason, Yaz doubts that last point, if the mischievous albeit guilty look the Doctor offers not a moment later is anything to go by.

“Can I take a look at that wrist of yours?” The Doctor murmurs once the wounds to her face have been taken care of. For the first time tonight, Yaz can see over her cheekbone, where before it was too swollen to offer a full view. The gel must be working wonders for her skin. She lifts the sore limb, letting the Doctor take the quickest of scans with her sonic. “I think I must’ve fallen on it awkwardly.”

She can hear her sigh of relief upon reading the results, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Just a sprain.”

Yaz copies the sigh, though the way the Doctor bandages her hand has goosebumps dotting her flesh. The physical contact she’s experienced from the Doctor after yearning for it for so long leaves her dizzy. She’s careful and just light enough to leave Yaz wanting to nudge her fingertips closer, something the blonde notices with a somewhat curious smile.

“Thank you, again. For all this - looking after me, I mean. I can usually do it myself if you want me to finish off?” Suddenly, Yaz feels guilt puncture her gut. The Doctor had simply stopped off to do some repairs before she was expecting anyone, and Yaz had prevented this with some silly injuries.

“Yasmin Khan, you are extremely readable. You’re not taking up any of the time I’d rather spend doing something else. You’re far too important to me for that,” the Doctor asserts, pressing a kiss to the top of her bandaged hand before she can think. She’s affectionate this time around, it seems, but it doesn’t stop a rosy hue rising in her cheeks.

If the Doctor is flushing, Yaz is _burning up_ , the skin beneath the bandage set aflame by her touch. She can only hope to return her affections at some point, but perhaps not in her current state.

“Does it hurt anywhere else? Have I missed anything?” She checks, glancing over the younger woman’s features and blushing when she finds Yaz observing.

She’s just checking the wounds are healing, the Doctor tells herself.

When Yaz motions towards her side, she’s quick to react. “May I?”

The skin spreading from her hip to the bottom of her ribs is a shade of yellow, mixing into a dark blue-purple oval shape in the centre. It’s almost the shape of a shoe - a man’s size eight, to be exact, and another wave of fury presents itself clearly on the Doctor’s features.

Yaz reaches out, resting a hand on her forearm. It seems they’re both in sync with each other's thoughts today. “He’s not worth thinking about. You’re better than this.”

“You’re too good, Yaz,” the Doctor croons, pulling back to fetch more gel from the collection she’s made at the side of the bed. “This might take a little longer to heal, but by tomorrow night, it’ll be gone,” she informs, her touch reverent against the smooth, youthful skin of her side.

Yaz can’t help the flutter of her lashes this time, the numbing pleasure of the gel mixing with the scorch of the Doctor’s touch sending somersaults off in her stomach. She flinches when her fingertips brush the deepest of the whirlwind of colours, letting out a hiss the Doctor can only hope never to hear again. So much for cooling the hatred she holds for the human being who hurt her Yaz.

She chooses to ignore the possessive pronoun she repeatedly finds herself using, saving it for when she’s not occupied with her anger.

“There we go. All better. Well - soon, anyway. How are you feeling? Any more pain?”

“Nothing I can’t sleep off,” Yaz murmurs, and it’s only then that the Doctor realises how late it is, and how tired Yaz must be. She doesn’t envy human sleeping patterns at all when she sees the fatigue dancing in Yaz’s eyes.

When she moves to slide off the bed, the Doctor is there to help, offering her a steady hand as she takes her first few steps.

“Wow, okay. I can definitely see why there were wars over that medicine now. I feel perfectly fine,” Yaz chimes, giving the Doctor an entirely too bright grin considering what she’s been through.

The Doctor can only laugh in return, tucking her hands into her pockets and giving a modest shrug. “Maybe some people are worth wars?”

The question is quiet, whispered just loud enough for Yaz to hear but quiet enough to convey the Doctor’s hesitation to further broach the topic of their unlabelled relationship at this time of night. She’d rather just hint, for now, to be subtle without entirely ignoring the subject altogether.

Yaz’s heart does a little flip, reaching out a hand to interlink their fingers, sleepy steps headed in the direction of her room aboard the ship. “Maybe they are.”

 

* * *

 

When Yaz slips between silky sheets sometime later, after having bid goodnight to her closest friend, she’s reminded of just how much energy the day has stolen from her. Luckily, the Doctor’s words and actions occupy her thoughts enough to distract her from the patchwork of bruises still littering her skin. As much as she doesn’t believe in cliches, there’s a smile on her lips when she succumbs to slumber for a reason.

Slumber does have its demons, though, leaving Yaz clammy and panicking only an hour or so later. She's writhing, clinging at the sheets as she tries desperately to escape the clutches of her attacker. A soft cry bounces off the walls of the corridor and reverberates throughout the console room where the Doctor potters about, sparks flying. The TARDIS senses something wrong, amplifying the sounds for the Doctor to hear over the sound of the engine's usual thrum.

The Doctor is on her feet in an instant, fearing a burst of agony has awoken her from her sleep from a hidden injury. Welding mask cast aside, she picks up her pace towards Yaz's room.

When she pokes her head around the door, she's struck with the sight of Yaz's thrashing form, her features laced with terror. It seems as though she's trying to get away from something, someone, and that's when the Doctor realises. She’s been so distracted the past hour or so she’s forgotten the effect the incident must’ve had on Yaz.

There’s a moment of hesitation and panic before the Doctor simply rounds to her side, reaching out to gently take hold of Yaz’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey, Yaz? You’re having a nightmare,” she murmurs, just loud enough to break through Yaz’s subconscious but apparently not enough to ease her frightened state.

Yaz jumps, scrambling to fight the Doctor’s touch through the peak of her suffering. Her breathing is fast and ragged, beads of sweat building over her brows and upper lip. The Doctor dodges a sweep of Yaz’s hand in her direction, as if defending herself from another attack, and that’s when the Doctor kicks into action.

“Yaz! Wake up, Yaz. It’s not real. You’re _dreaming_ ,” she says more firmly this time, perched precariously on the edge of the bed until Yaz finally jerks awake, jumping up into a sitting position and curling her arms around her knees. The Doctor can hear the way her teeth chatter, an all-encompassing sense of guilt washing over her.

She should’ve been there to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep her happy and unburdened with the worst of humanity’s actions.

Yaz blinks blearily in the low light of her room, the TARDIS slow to turn up the lighting and reveal the Time Lord sat at her side, features a picture of sorrow. She blinks, and the image of a foot, shooting towards her side and crunching against her hip makes her wish never to close her eyes again. There are goosebumps clinging to her limbs and she’s clammy and sweating, breaths coming harsh and fast. “I thought you were - I - I’m sorry.”

Her voice sounds so vulnerable and small and quiet that the Doctor can’t help but shuffle forward, hovering for a moment before a swift nod allows her arms to curl around the other woman. “You have _absolutely nothing_ to apologise for, Yaz.”

The words are muffled against the top of Yaz’s head, where the Doctor presses a flurry of affectionate, reassuring kisses, uncaring for the consequences - Yaz must know by now that their feelings match, that the reason for their closeness is for more than just good friendship.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The Time Lord whispers sometime later. Yaz’s breathing has slowed to a more gradual pace, her pulse easing from its intense drumming to a slow murmur.

A sigh melts against the Doctor’s chest, lashes fluttering against her skin. She shifts, then, laying down to give the Doctor a better angle. Her eyes are wide, still a little dilated with fear.

Yaz reaches out to touch her fingertips to the Doctor’s forearm, features an image of unguarded vulnerability and it continues to nick and chip away at her hearts. “Could you just… hold me for a little while longer? If that’s alright?”

If she wasn’t before, the Doctor is now entirely doomed to do anything the younger woman asks. With a gentle smile, pupils brimming with affection and a hint of… possessiveness? - the blonde lays beside her, opening her arms in the welcome warmth Yaz craves.

They fit together like puzzle pieces, an arm encircled around Yaz’s shoulders while her own winds its way around the Doctor’s waist, draped leisurely over her slim form as if anchored by a ship. She settles against her chest with a sigh, the double-beat of her hearts assisting with the lure of sleep until she’s dozing quietly in her comforting hold.

The rest of Yaz’s slumber is uninterrupted by any grim reenactments from hours before, instead blossomed with scenarios anew, of long mornings spent tied up in strong arms, of the sweet scent from the body beside her, and of new beginnings and returned feelings.

She can only hope, this time, that the dreams really do come to fruition.

Little does she know, the blonde’s thoughts are following exactly the same path when sleep gradually overtakes her form.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
